A few other cool things besides me celebrate their 40th birthdays this year. The moon landing. The Manson murders. The ’69 Mustang. And this weekend the coolest one of all, Woodstock. And while it sort of horrifies me a little now that we’re well into the 00’s that I’ve been alive so damn long, I do think it’s pretty rad I made my first appearance in the coolest decade ever. (Just try and say any different; go on – I dare ya.) My parents liked to say I was an Aquarius who was born during the Age of Aquarius and while I had no idea what the hell they were babbling about at the time, I now appreciate it a lot more and know this must be where I get my latent hippie tendencies.

In 1994 some promoters decided a great way to make an assload of money would be to throw a bunch of bands together, most of whom had no ties or history to the first Woodstock whatsoever, and do a huge reunion. This was during those bleak, pointless days before the Internet, but I still paid a lot of attention to what was going on in the music world (thank you Rolling Stone subscription) and when I caught wind of this, I lost my shit.

I was twenty-five that year (again, me & Woostock, same age). I was living with Delorme and one of our favorite pasttimes was attending concerts. It would take willpower and effort, but we had eight months to save up the money (even back then the tickets were 120 bucks) and by God, we were doing it. The serendipitous part was, a lot of my relatives live a very short distance from where the show was held, so we decided to make a week’s vacation out of it as well. It remains up there as one of the best vacations of my life.

It was a twelve hour drive from our house in Lexington, S.C. to my cousin’s apartment in N.Y.C. Woodstock isn’t exactly Scott’s scene, but we are and have always been BFF’s and he was young back then too and knew this would be an adventure we needed to share. Arriving at his place at six in the morning, he let me sleep exactly one hour before yelling in my ear, “YOU’RE IN NEW YORK FUCKING CITY, HOW ARE YOU EVEN SLEEPING RIGHT NOW???” I got up. And I just realized that’s probably why a few years ago I bought a t-shirt that says “New York Fucking City.” Huh.

It was fun showing Delorme the city for the first time but we only stayed a few hours before it was time to make our way upstate, picked up a few of Scott’s friends and arrive to the festival grounds late Friday afternoon. It was almost sunset by the time we set up camp and with the help of some huge crazy lighting set-up, there literally was a purple haze settling in everywhere around us. It was gorgeous and surreal and I don’t know how many times we just hugged each other, in awe we were actually there. Little did we know that would be the last time we saw any hint of sun while we were there, as it started raining around noon the next day and never really stopped. Ha, like it mattered.

For three days we camped. We shared food and water and booze and weed with people we didn’t know. Supposedly there were hundreds of thousands of people there, yet we saw not one fight. Even when food, water and toilet paper ran out. We brushed our teeth at a big square communal water trough. We watched the “mud people” slip and slide around until they looked like primordial ooze creatures. Delorme woke me up one morning around 5:30, saying, “You’ve got to come with me now,” and led me to where Joe Walsh was standing nearby in the middle of a quickly growing crowd strumming an accoustic and smoking a joint someone had handed him. We never got really close to any of the stages, but there was never a moment where music wasn’t playing somewhere in the background:

Crosby, Stills and Nash. Melissa Etheridge. Green Day. Metallica. The Chili Peppers. Nine Inch Nails. Blues Traveller. Aerosmith. Sheryl Crow. And on. And on. Look it up on Wikipedia sometime – the lineup was ridiculous. I’ll never forget as we were reluctantly but exhaustedly walking out of there on Sunday, we could hear Arrested Development singing Tennessee (Take me to another place, take me to another land…) and it was sort of the perfect song to walk out to. There was no moment that wasn’t perfect that weekend.

I treasure the pictures I have and I should probably scan them or something. It was such an amazing experience and weirdly kind of symbollic for me. And one day, if I have my way, I will get myself back to the garden.

This weekend has been pretty low-key for me, which seems to be the case lately. The only difference is I’ve added exercise into my daily life and I’ve managed to stick to it for five consecutive days so far – go, me! I’m really excited about the new blog and I think it’s going to help me tremendously through this, my latest adventures in weight loss.

Grace called yesterday with some mildly upsetting news: her daughter, my favorite youngster, was caught sneaking out with one of her friends the other night. The story is confusing so I won’t get into details, but what struck me the most is that for our hometown (and I’m sure many others), this seems to be an unavoidable right of passage. I mean, my friends and I certainly did our share, though my 120-lb German Shepard “brother” made it impossible for us to get away with it at home so we had to do most of our nighttime skulking from friends’ houses. No problem making curfew when you knew the real fun wasn’t going to start until after 1 a.m. anyway. Oy.

We thought we were so crafty with the whole “I’m staying over at Jen’s tonight” plan. Even though Jen’s place was THE primo place to stay, since her mom not only knew about the sneak-outs, but practically encouraged them – and loved hearing all about our adventures the next day! Yes, I know – she was a little weird. But she had her logic about it; if it was going to happen inevitably, she figured as long as the boys came to us and we stayed on their property, well then we were obviously safe and sound and that was just fine and dandy with her. Little did she know her daughter lost her virginity while on their property, but no harm no foul.

But even though her mom was way more liberal than most, that wasn’t good enough for us and we had to still push the limits. Because, why not? Where’s the fun in having permission; that takes all the rebellion out of it. Her mom’s worst punishment for our night activities was loudly waking us up at 7am, forcing us to get showered, dressed and eat breakfast, no matter how hungover we were – the worse, the better. The bitch is lucky she made fabulous pancakes.

One night, the four of us, me, Grace, Jen and my sister were out at this house party. Jen and Sister were the youngsters compared to us – sophmores in high school to our already-graduated-but-still-living-at-home status. And while we had a hair more freedom than they did, we still lived under the “As long as you’re under my roof you will have a curfew” regime. So unfair! What the hell, Dad, I’m 19 – I am a woman now and need to fly and be free!! Anyway. This party. It was one of those nights the guy to girl ratio was great and all the guys we had crushes on were present and accounted for. The cheap beer, malt liquor and Boones Farm was flowing and we were having a great time. Until so quickly, the clock (our enemy) was showing us it was time to get our asses home. But somehow in our drunken logic, Grace and I decided, Hey, we’re older; why should WE have to go home just because the youngsters do! At which point I gave the keys to my car to Jen, not because she was less drunk, but because she knew how to drive a stick and my sister didn’t. We told them to take the car and go straight home, that we’d be there shortly. Long story long, we went off with some guys to the big city of Ocala, thirty miles away, and spent the night at some dude’s (we named him “That Guy”) apartment.

Do you want to know the sickest thing a young girl can experience while driving home in the early morning hours as daylight fast approaches? No, not the hangover. Not sexual regret or wondering if the other girls made it home okay. The sight of Jen’s parents PASSING YOU ON THE ROAD BECAUSE THEY ARE DRIVING AROUND LOOKING FOR ALL OF YOU. Grace and I saw them, looked at each other and quickly surmised that yeah, apparently poor judgment was made all around and the girls never made it home either. When punishments were handed out, Grace and I got off fairly easily, as we were considered too old to really be grounded; we basically received a stern talking-to regarding the fact we were the OLDER and therefore MORE RESPONSIBLE ones and they thought we were TRUSTWORTHY when it came to looking out for the younger girls. Oops. Sister got the worst of it and was put on restriction for a month, subsequently missing one of the greatest parties of that year the following week. And you can ask her – she’s still pissed about that one.

So yeah, I vividly remember what it’s like. The late-night adventures we had in our little town are some of my fondest memories. And living where we did, so sheltered compared to so many bigger, scarier places, our shenanigans were pretty tame. I’m very thankful Elizabeth is growing up in that same little town. But the thought that she’s right on the precipice of all this scares the living hell out of me (So, haha, imagine what her mother must feel like, haha!) She’s an intelligent, thoughtful and caring kid. She even inherited her mother’s grim intuition, telling her friend, “You know we’re going to get caught if we do this, right?” She has a conscience and God knows that’s key. I’m not saying she’s not going to screw up; I just think knowing when she’s doing it, knowing there will most definitely be consequences, really will make the difference. This won’t help Grace sleep any better at night, but I’m not sure that’s avoidable when you have a teenager you gave birth to and are responsible for keeping alive.

And she’s starting high school in August. This is one of the only reasons I wish I still lived there, because I have the feeling it’s going to be an interesting four years.

That electrician dude was buggin’ me during the telling of the separation awhile back about being a cocktease (he may not have used that actual phrase, but it was implied) with regards to hinting around about the time I punched Brian in the mouth but then not telling the story, so I’ll get that out of the way because I don’t appreciate being called a tease.

It was March of 2002 and we’d been staying at Grace’s house during the week but going our separate ways on the weekends. Though I do have some fond memories from this weird time, the majority of it wreaked havoc on my emotional state and everything else. I got down to 104 pounds (DAMN, that was cool! Not really. But sort of!) and I was becoming a card-carrying pill-popper. My dad had just passed away on top of everything else, so when I got the phone call that a good friend of ours had just died unexpectedly, it almost did me in.

Mario was thirty-three years old, had just married his longtime girlfriend and mother of his child, my good friend Arlene. We’d spent a lot of time with them; they were one of the only good things about our time in Lake City. We loved joking about us being the only white people to ever hang out at their house and their church. Mario loved leaving stupid phone messages to me pretending to be someone else and always made me laugh. Arlene gave me strength and inspiration during the shitty time just by telling me some of the stories she and Mario had been through only to finally be happily getting married and completely in love. God really has a cruel sense of timing sometimes. Mario had severe asthma. And was a smoker. He died from an acute asthmatic attack at home with Arlene and the kids around him. Before the ambulance got there he managed to tell their oldest son he would need to be the man of the house and help his mother take care of things from then on.

Brian was just as devastated, if not more than I was, as he and Mario were really close by that point. Mario told Brian once, “Why did you have to hurt Kim like that? Why couldn’t you just have an affair and keep quiet about it like every other dude?” That was Mario’s humor and it still makes me laugh to think about it now. I let Brian know I’d tell him when the funeral would be, and he could either come with me or go by himself. I did tell him bringing the girlfriend probably wouldn’t be wise, as Arlene would have not minded one bit to interrupt the services in order to kick her ass, black girl style. (Her words) In fact, she told me that would be very enjoyable to her and all I had to do was say the word. And Brian knew Arlene well and was smart enough to take the hint seriously.

The funeral ended up being that weekend, on Saturday. I tried getting in touch with Brian to let him know the time and place, but he’d already left to be with Whorezilla for the weekend and I couldn’t get him on the phone. I think I had a cell phone at the time but he didn’t and of course she didn’t have a home phone at her place – I mean why break stereotype like that? I left word with as many mutual friends as I could and stopped worrying about it.

I drove the almost two hour trip by myself and made plans to stay with friends for the night, knowing I’d be in no shape to drive back after all that (remember the pill-popping). The funeral was at their church, where we’d been to visit a few times, but was way out in the country, dirt roads and all. I impressed myself by remembering how to get there. I also horrified myself by barfing all over the inside of the car five minutes before arriving. (For me, heat + pills + nerves = vom) When I pulled the car into the long line of parked vehicles, I was glad to see one of Mario’s cousins approaching. He was so sad, there in his dark suit, suffering from heat exhaustion, but then cracked a big smile when he saw me. And I was like, “Psst! Tommy! I need some help over here!” I showed him the barf chunks, which had somehow mostly missed my clothes and he ran to get me a wet towel. I made myself presentable, but I can truly say that was one long, hot, heartbreaking day. Brian never showed up which I thought was very weird, but chalked it up to the ditch witch not allowing him to go since of course I was there, and where better to reconcile oru marriage than at a good friend’s funeral. I apologzied to Arlene for him and she told me it was okay; she’d slap him the next time she saw him but for me to tell him she loved him too. God, I’m freaking crying again right now. Awesome.

Back at Grace’s house Sunday late afternoon, Brian showed up a few hours after I did and I couldn’t wait to hear what stupid excuse he’d have for not going. But oh no – surprise, HE was pissed at ME! Um, excuse me, whatthefuck did you just say? We took our argument from the front yard, COPS style, into the garage/laundry room where we could fight in private. He started bitching – and he was seriously red-faced pissed off – carrying on about how could I not tell him when or where the funeral was, that no matter what was going on with us that was so selfish of me and he couldn’t believe I’d do something that shitty. He said something like, “I wasn’t going to bring HER, if that’s what you were worried about.”

Aaaaand, CRACK. Right-handed uppercut to the jaw, and it connected perfectly. Now I’m glad there were no witnesses (I exposed Elizabeth to way too much as it was; she didn’t need to see my first foray into domestic violence) but at the time I remember thinking, Damn, that was a great punch! He just looked at me all shocked and shit. It says a lot that he didn’t hit me back, because I believe anyone, ANYONE who hits somebody should at least expect the same in return. But he didn’t. I yelled something original like You have some fucking nerve, expletive, expletive, bad name, expletive. And ARE YOU HAPPY YOU’RE SO FUCKED UP OVER THIS BITCH YOU MISSED ONE OF YOUR BEST FRIEND’S FUNERAL??? Hurtful. But I was so mad/sad/tired/insane by that point. Two funerals in under three weeks. My husband half living with me, half with another girl. I’m in no way trying to justify my hitting. It makes me ashamed when I think about it now, but these days if I bring it up he says I barely grazed him anyway.(FALSE)

I do remember another feeling along with the shock and satisfaction. And that was feeling absolutely sick. My fist connecting with the face of the person I love more than anyone in the world? It was nauseating. I’m so sorry and sad it even happened. But it did, so remembering it now just makes me really thankful (again) we made it through all that shit and lived to tell about it. I just called him to say hi because I was feeling guilty after this and said Remember the time I gave you that righteous uppercut? He said, No, I only remember getting hit if it actually hurt, so why would I remember that? Then he laughed at me.

These days are much happier and we keep the hitting where it belongs, in the bedroom.

If I’m as bored as this with the whole fucking stupid baby stupid fucking thing, I can only imagine how anyone who reads this is. I’m really going to try keeping that shit to a minimum until there’s something interesting to say, like for instance if I were to actually, you know, GET PREGNANT. Fuck.

Work is just stupid too, so no talking about that either.

We were making more jokes about forming a compound/bunker the other day (because we’re hysterical like that) and then I remembered something. We’d both be terrible in a place like that. Not only does he start to break out in the cold sweats if he doesn’t have his daily dose of Fox News or the equivalent, but I get pretty grumpy away from the interwebs after a short time. Embarrassing but true. And that’s only really a small part of it.

My parents bought an RV when I was nine and we spent many fun summers traveling around the country and also spending a couple of whole summers in New York. My parents always joked about how us kids didn’t know from “roughing it” and that if we were ever forced to camp in an actual tent, we’d be horrified. Well, they weren’t entirely right, but fairly close. We spent a fun weekend tent camping in the North Carolina mountains one beautiful Fall and I also spent three wet days in a tent at the Woodstock reunion in 1994 that ranks up there in the top five vacations of my life. But I will say I can only handle a tent if the weather is nice and chilly. The one time we tried camping in North Florida one Memorial Day weekend is a nightmare I’ve been mostly successful at blocking out completely. The heat. The bugs. The skin sticking together -(Zexy)- Hell no; you can HAVE that shit.

I like TV too. There, I said it. Our motorhome had a little black & white antenna’d thing that was mostly a pain in the ass and we rarely used it. But it made us feel good just knowing it was there.

Then this one Summer, my parents sent us to stay with our hippie aunt and uncle for a few weeks. I laugh now knowing it was actually only two weeks or so when it seemed like a lifetime then. These people lived in a commune-ish place in WAAAY upstate New York, like close to Canada, and they lived pretty much isolated from civilization on top of a mountain or some shit. My aunt’s house wasn’t, but their next door neighbors had one of those built-into-the-ground houses, which we thought was cool as hell at the time because we could walk on the “roof,” which was actually just part of the “yard.” Those people had a little blond hippie kid who they encouraged to call them by their first names – I wonder what kind of an addict he is today.

What we weren’t fond of was the fact my aunt’s house had no electricity or running water (by choice – hippies, remember) so that while we sort of enjoyed being hosed off outside for our showers, we did NOT enjoy the sun going down at 9:00 and them not allowing us to use the Coleman lanterns too much for fear of wasting the oil. Dude, if I can’t read at night, even back in the day, I start to get panicky and weird. And since bedtime was strictly enforced to us all during the school year, Summer vacation was NOT when I wanted to go to bed at 9:00, damn it.

And do not EVER try to pass carob off as chocolate to me, ever, ever again. Same goes for rice cakes as a substitute for bread, bagels, English muffins or what have you. Admittedly Sister and I did have a fun time there, especially amongst ourselves, mostly by making fun of everyone around us and also amusing ourselves for hours every day singing Eddie Rabbit while swinging endlessly on the miraculously provided swing set. I actually don’t recall ever really being bored while we were there, which is really crazy. They took us to a couple of really cool concerts-in-the-park things and also to see Raiders of the Lost Ark, which scared the living shit out of us on the big screen, and I am G-D OLD.

Fond memories of the Summer of ’81. But I really do greatly enjoy lights and reading at night and water and my dvr, I really do.

I was going to try to be a smartass and do a whole post like I was writing while I was high, but I figured no one would be able to tell the difference – HA! In honor of today though, let’s talk about weed for a minute, specifically my history with it. You’re not a cop, are you?

As with many things I was a fairly late bloomer. I think most people, if they’re going to try it at all, usually try it first in their teens, but not me. I grew up in a small town with fairly protective parents. I didn’t even SEE pot until I was a senior in high school. My boyfriend at the time (he now resides in the Florida state prison system since pot interestingly did turn out to be a gateway drug for him and he eventually graduated to crack) had some one night while we were a party and it wasn’t long after he showed me the bag of evil green stuff (it smelled nasty as hell to me)(back then) I broke up with him. Not because of that though; it was more due to the fact he was a total lovey-dovey cling-on and literally bathed himself in Polo cologne. Oh, Mark. I’m guessing you’ve not aged well.

Skip ahead three years to when I’m now buying beer legally. I’m socializing with a new group of friends, one of whom is Delorme. You know, the guy who is pretty much responsible for the direction my life took. After being around these people for a few months and seeing them smoke without any detrimental results (besides having long stupid conversations regarding how awesome Carefree Sugarless Gum and Sour Cream and Onion flavored chips are and hidden meanings behind classic rock lyrics), I figured what the hey. And I don’t understand this, but I’d heard the first time you smoke it doesn’t really work. Maybe it’s God’s way of giving you one more chance not to try it? I don’t know, but that’s what happened to me. The second time? A lot different. All I remember is laughing until I sprinkled my pants and swiftly inhaling a Whopper with cheese, which is how I knew I was high – I HATE Burger King.

For the next ten years the Maryjane was my thing. I thought, like many others, I’d found the perfect drug for myself. It didn’t make me feel shitty the next day like alcohol. It wasn’t habit-forming (officially). It didn’t make me lazy (sometimes) but instead made things like cleaning the house, going grocery shopping and many other mundane chores a lot more fun. It made funny movies hysterical. It made me want to do creative things like write and paint and do crafts. True, it made some things more difficult, like following the directions on the back of the Hamburger Helper box, but I managed. I figured okay, this was good. I’d be one of those hip fifty-somethings with a long gray braid and loose hippie skirts with a garden and a sweet ass hydroponic system, living somewhere in the Pacific Northwest and voting Green Party.

It didn’t work out that way.

But this isn’t an Afterschool Special story. I didn’t have any big epiphanies or Aha moments.

During the Bad Time, when Brian and I had first separated, an opportunity arose to smoke with a friend. It had been awhile but I figured what better way to calm down and take the edge off, finally. I needed to de-stress badly. That’s not what happened. For the first time ever I didn’t catch a tasty buzz. What happened was more like an anxiety attack and believe me, I’m well versed enough in those (Expert Level even) to know real fast when it’s happening. I thought, Oh shit; this is what all those ex-stoners talked about and I just thought they had turned into big wusses. But since it sometimes takes me awhile to catch on, I tried it again a few days later, you know – just to make sure. Same thing.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me sad that I knew my stoner days had come to an end. But since that time, almost eight years ago, there have only been a couple of instances (usually while on vacation, usually in New York) that I’ve done it again, with semi-okay results. I din’t have any more panic attacks, but I didn’t have a ton of fun either. It mostly made me feel stupid and tired and unable to concentrate on what I’m reading. And I can achieve those things just as easily by myself, without inhaling an illegal smoky substance into my already damaged lung situation. (The fact that it’s illegal is completely ridiculous to me, but that’s another story.)

But There’s one thing left over from the days of weed though that I recently unearthed. It was this little notebook and in it, I saw I’d started writing (and illustrating!)a book. The working title is The (In)Complete Stoners’ Handbook and in flipping through it, I saw the thing is damn funny. Even now when I’m not under the same influence I was when I’d written it. Brian thinks it’s a masterpiece, but you know – he still smokes. In fact, he’s spent most of this morning looking for his phone that he misplaced yesterday. He finally found it though. Where? Why, in the engine area of his truck, wedged safely in a crevice so tightly it managed not to fall out while he drove over to his mom’s house to look for it. Of course that’s where it was. You mean you wouldn’t put your phone in a super place like that while putting new brake pads on your vehicle? I guess he celebrated 4/20 a little early, and by early I mean daily, but all’s well that ends well. He just told me I left my keys in his truck yesterday too and looked around for them for a half hour this morning inside the house, finally having to take my spare set to work which doesn’t have my work keys on it. What’s my excuse, because it damn sure isn’t drugs.

Disclaimer: This blogger in no way endorses or admits to the use of any illicit or fun substances including but not limited to: Marijuana, LSD, white sugar, crack, diet pills, caffeine, cigarettes, all stimulants, all depressants, and chocolate. You cannot prove otherwise.

There were some pretty vicious storms that passed through the Southeast Friday night/Saturday morning. By some miracle (perhaps because it is a holy weekend?) our power never went out all the way, it just did that weird dimming/buzzing thing a few times, which was enough to make me unplug the important things – TV, computer and microwave. You laugh, but when Delorme and I lived in the little house on the lake, our house got hit by lightning and we lost two TV’s, a VCR (it was the early 90’s), two cordless phones and our microwave. It was then I first learned about the existance of this neat thing called renter’s insurance. And the fact it really sucks when you don’t have it.

Tornadoes scare the living shit out of me, unlike hurricanes. As a former Floridian, I’ve experienced them many times to the point I think I’m immune to them. Sure, there was that one summer we had four fairly serious ones in six weeks and lost power for two days and almost had a tree crash through our bedroom, but really? No biggie. Hurricanes give plenty of prior warning and then almost never follow through with much action. I’m not talking about Katrina, Andrew or Hugo here; those are obvious and painful exceptions. But believe me, most of the time the weather forecasters get their panties in a wad for four days, especially the ones in Florida who finally have something to talk about besides hot and humid, everybody gets excited and starts buying plywood, batteries and gallons of water and then usually there’s some wind and rain for a day. It’s usually a huge letdown, really. Most Floridians have even experienced going outside during one so at least you feel like you’ve had some excitement over the damn thing. I once made out in the middle of one – that was cool.

But a tornado? Oh hell no. My cousin lived in Missouri for awhile, or it may have been Kansas. One of those states that has Kansas City in it. (Why are there two Kansas Cities? That has always pissed me off) Anyway, she told me after awhile she got used to hearing the tornado siren go off, it happened so often. It didn’t even phase her. I don’t care how long I lived there; every time I heard that, I would react by simultaneously having a heart attack and shitting my pants. Do not like.

My only real firsthand experiences with the evil bastards was twice. They both happened here, years apart, but very close in proximity. The first time was the night before Delorme and I were splitting up and we were spending the night in that same lake house for the last time with our cat. If the tornado didn’t pass directly over our house, it came damn close, judging by the screaming wind, rattling windows and fallen trees all over our yard the next morning. We’d spent the night on a mattress on the floor of the living room with the poor cat squeezed between us and didn’t sleep much, if at all. I told him it must be God’s way of telling us not to break up but he didn’t listen to me and we broke up anyway.

The second one, the way more traumatic of the two, happened on the same lake (Is Lake Murray a tornado magnet? Must research) but after Brian and I had been living together for awhile. We went out with our friends for the day on their boat. That morning we’d checked the weather and while it did look like there was a possibility of overcast skies and possible rain late in the day, it was a bright shiny morning (also the name of the James Frey book I just checked out from the library) and we decided screw it; boat time! These people were actually our Redneck Friends 1.0 and we had just a few weeks before gone riding around in a mud hole with them (oh, you doubted the redneckness?), gotten stuck within the first ten minutes and had to walk three miles to the nearest civilization which happened to be a Waffle House which is like a beacon of all that is good and holy when you’re cold and beer-drunk. Wow, got a little off track there.

Anyblah, we went out on their boat, just the four of us. Not sure where their kids were that day, but very thankful now they weren’t with us. We tooled around for awhile having a great time, when late in the afternoon the skies did indeed start to darken. Then the sky started to look really weird. The air temperature literally dropped what felt like twenty degrees and looked to be almost this sick yellow/green color, if air could have a color. I forget who spotted it first, but sure enough there in the distance, one of the swirling clouds formed into a funnel before our eyes and dipped down into the water. Had I not actually been so close by on a fucking BOAT, I would’ve thought it was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen, and I guess now I can actually say it was, since we’re alive and all. We actually saw a tornado form, touch down into the lake and become a water spout, spin around for a few minutes and then go back up into the evil cloud from whence it came.

The two shapes I’m scared of most: funnels and that weird pointy shape of the windows of the Amityville Horror house. It’s true.

We didn’t have time to be freaked out about just seeing that whole situation, because within seconds the clouds went from a light pissy rain to a torrential Noah’s Ark situation. Dennis was driving the boat and shouted to Brian he couldn’t see past the boat’s bow. Brian climbed up there to guide him as lightning stopped fucking around and started getting serious. Michelle and I huddled together in the boat’s tiny covered area and I tried to hide my extreme fear and the fact I had started to pray. No one else seemed freaked out and Brian even let out a few WHOOS and ALL-RIGHTS! Dumbass. In retrospect sure I felt dumb, but at the time I seriously thought we weren’t going to make it. Though Florida may have made me unaffected by hurricanes, it did give me a healthy respect for lightning, and that’s what was scaring me the most.

Of course all’s well that ended well and now it’s nothing but a stupid story for me to tell whenever someone brings up the subject of tornadoes. Or in this case, even when no one brings it up but I just feel like talking about it.

The only problem I discovered yesterday was not any damage to our house or cars (there had also been widespread hail reported) or any tree limbs down, but came about when we decided to watch the season finale of Friday Night Lights we’d taped the night before. The local news channel, the same one who a month ago swore we were going to be buried in snow for twelve hours straight and we got nary a flake, deemed it necessary to INTERRUPT THE SEASON FINALE OF MY FAVORITE SHOW three or four times throughout the episode. That was in addition to running that constant red line at the bottom that kept telling us we were under severe thunderstorm warnings and a tornado watch until 1 a.m. and that horrible beeping noise. If you don’t think I haven’t already sent a very angry email to WIS-TV, you don’t know me at all.

I’ve been sitting here trying to think up some funny April Fool’s joke, but I’m having problems thinking of anything that doesn’t involve a bodily function (as is my way), and nothing is even sounding funny to me, so screw it. I feel all jinxy right now anyway, so saying something like “I just pooped my pants!” even if it’s followed by a sheepish “Naw, April Fool!” I’d be scared the rest of the day of pooping in my pants.

My dad LOVED this holiday and in particular having me be the sole recipient of his jokes. Every year it was something: rigging my bathroom with boobytraps: a cup of water falling on my head when I opened the door, Saran wrap on the toilet seat, no water coming out of the faucet and “The Fool Was Here” written in soap all over the mirror. That was funny. Once he hid my car; parked it around the back of the house so that when I walked out to go to school, I had a heart attack, while he watched from the front window laughing his ass off. Even when I was on vacation away from home once he packed a bunch of plastic spiders in my suitcase and coordinated it with my boyfriend at the time to have it scare me on April 1st. I’ll admit it – I miss that a lot. All those things were good, but one year he lost his mind and went to the extreme.

I was eleven years old and completely obsessed with The Dukes of Hazzard. My sister and cousins will verify this if you have any doubts. Posters – not only all over my bedroom, but also all over my bunk bed area in our motorhome. Teen magazine collages abounded. Every Friday night at 8:00 without fail, was the highlight of my week and I was not to be interrupted by anyone (not much has changed there, but at least now there are dvr’s). I was all about Bo in particular, but loved them all; that show was my everything. We still had antenna then and only got reception on the three main networks, which was jolly good by me, as long as CBS was one of them. One dark sad night a train went by just as the show was starting, we lost reception and couldn’t get it back for hours. Unexplained to this day and also obviously very scarring to me, since I remember it.

We lived in Wildwood, Florida at the time and my dad was the golf pro at the local country club. Someone passed the information along that some relatives of Tom Wopat, the guy who played Luke Duke, were members of our club and lived nearby. It was rumored that Tom himself also had some property and a house there and I don’t remember how but we did end up confirming that was true. Strangely a few years later when we lived thirty miles west in Inverness, we met the guy who played Roscoe P. Coaltraine (and the dog who played his hound dog Flash who was also his dog in real life but who was a girl dog) who had a house THERE. I don’t know what it was about small little bumpkin Florida towns and the cast of that show, but apparently they loved the area for whatever reason.

Did you know John Travolta has a house in Ocala, right there as well? That has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but it just surprises me so many of my celebrity boyfriends lived so damn close by yet we never met and had the romantic times I dreamed about. Sucks.

Anyway. A few days before April Fool’s, Dad started really bringing up the whole Luke Duke thing, saying we’d have to ride around and see if we could find his house (stalkers!) or maybe see if he liked golf and give him a free round, etc. Assuring that I was in a highly agitated state, right up until the day I got home from school and my mom told me my dad had a surprise for me. Hmm? Yes. She told me she wasn’t sure, but she thought my dad might have found Luke and was maybe bringing him to our house?

Wait, WHAT?

She said, “Now don’t get too excited, Daddy’s just going to try.” Too excited? Oh, but it was already well past that point. I did what I always do in those situations and went straight to the toilet. Then after that I went directly to my room and shut and locked the door. I had to get a grip on all this somehow, because I was straight losing my shit. (Literally)

Then I heard it. Remember the Dukes’ car, the General Lee? Of course you do. Remember how the car horn played “Dixie?” That was the sound I was currently hearing and it was coming from my very own driveway. I don’t think I actually shit in my pants, but I came pretty damn close. I know I made some high pitched squealing sounds. Then I dove into my closet and slammed the door shut, refusing to come out. I’d like to think I’ve matured and could handle something like that better nowadays, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.

I don’t remember how, but they finally got me to come out. My dad was pretty much crying he was laughing so hard. He led me outside to the driveway, where the only car there was his little red Fiat. Wha? He leaned in the window and beeped the horn. And it played “Dixie” again. He spent $80 (and remember this is 1979 or thereabouts; that was a good amount of money back then, at least for our family) to get this horn and have someone hook it up to his car, all for a joke on me. The horn played something like a hundred different songs, but he bought it for one song. You would have thought I’d be mad at him for not delivering Luke Duke to me, but actually all I felt was relief. As much as I loved those Duke boys, I guess that love had to be from afar for me to be able to deal with it.

My dad was so awesome. He got the biggest kick out of making me laugh. I miss the hell out of him.

I didn’t mean to make so many references about pooping in pants. I’ll try to avoid that going forward.

Tomorrow is my dad’s birthday and instead of feeling sad, I’m going to tell a little story. This story was one of my dad’s favorites and when we first told it to him, he laughed so hard he blew snot and his glasses fell off. It might not have the same effect on you, but that’s okay.

Back in the early 90’s, my sister and I were going to college in Tallahassee. We shared an apartment with two of our good friends and hung out a lot together; it was a fun period in our early adult lives.

I was taking a Humanities class, and in that class was this HOT-ASS DUDE. Long hair, tattoos, big blue eyes. Come to think of it, Brian resembled this guy very much when I first met him; I am nothing if not consistent with who I’m attracted to. So this guy was beautiful, and even though he’d smiled at me a few times, I was too chickenshit to talk to him of course. But oh happy day, for some reason (we’ll soon learn why) he talked to me first, one day while we were walking into class.

It was then I learned a big lesson on appearances being deceiving. Here I figured he’d be some beer-drinking, pot-smoking rocker dude (yeah!), so it was quite a shock when he introduced himself (his name was Robin) and invited me to visit his church for the upcoming Wednesday night service. Uh…wha? He told me the church was non-denominational and really laid back; no uptight stuffy people, in fact it was mostly young cool people. He also told me he was studying to be a pastor. Holy Hotness, Batman; I was lusting after Pastor Robin!

Now, I’m sure you’ve done some strange things in the past when you’ve been strongly crushing on someone and so had I. But going to church? That was a new one. After hearing me talk about this guy for weeks, my sister was excited for me, the fact there had finally been actual conversation. You have to understand; I’d already built this guy up to mythical proportions in both our heads. I’m pretty sure I even compared him to Jon Bon Jovi, which back then for us was the ultimate male compliment. I told her about the church thing and in true sisterly support, she agreed to go with me that night. There’s no way in hell…I mean…heck I would’ve had the balls to do something like that by myself. God, having a sister is so handy sometimes!

So Wednesday night arrived, and with directions in hand off we went. Our roommate friends, especially Jen, thought it a bit humorous, but whatever. All’s fair in the name of hot dudes and she understood. The church was just some small building downtown and like Robin had promised, it was casual and intimate. He spotted us as we walked in and happily greeted us. Sister gave me a look like, Oh yeah; you were not lying about the hotness. He led us over to where there were folding chairs set up (again, casual) and told us he’d join us after he talked to some people. He ended up sitting a few chairs down from Sister; I think there might have been one or two people in between them.

During the service, which was pretty good as I recall, a great idea came to me. I had been dying to know Robin’s last name; I don’t know why – the better to stalk him with I guess? So I logically figured, someone like him would have a fancy personalized Bible. And many times those fancy personalized Bibles have the person’s name printed on the front. Usually in like that gold lettering? I wanted to know his last name, so bingo! I quickly whispered all this to Sister and told her, Look over there and try to get a peek at the front of his Bible – see if you can read his whole name! She began to lean over and do her best to subtly get the visual without being obvious. A minute or so passed, and suddenly she snapped her head back around and faced forward. She bit her lip and wouldn’t look at me. I could see her face starting to turn pink.

What! I said urgently, What did it say; what’s his name???She turned to me with tears in her eyes and answered: Genuine Leather.

At that moment, we immediately both faced forward, too scared to look at each other for the rest of the service for fear of interrupting it with our loud, raucous laughter. And to our credit, we held it in until about an hour after we left, when we were over at her boyfriend’s house telling the story to him. And then we called our dad later after getting home and he had the reaction I described above. Anytime after that, all someone had to say was “genuine leather,” and he laughed until he cried.

Sadly, I quickly found out, ol’ G.L. was dating another member of the church, a very pretty brunette. Our interaction thereafter was a friendly hello here and there and after the semester ended, I never saw him again. I’m sure he’s a good preacher now and is living a wonderful life. I never got a date from him, but I got a great story and like Mick and Keith say, You can’t always get what you want but if you try sometime you just might find you get what you need.

Enough with those pictures staring me in the face every time I bring my blog list up to read other people’s stuff today. As attractive as I am with a big blue penis in my face, I’d rather not see that. Like ever. It does remind me of a funny story though.

When Brian and I were first living together, way back when the earth’s crust was still cool and I hadn’t yet turned fiscally conservative, a friend of ours was getting rid of a waterbed and asked if we wanted to buy it. Having never owned one, I said sure. I was mostly excited about the fact it had one of those cheesy 80’s built-in bookshelf headboards. Give me something with a bookshelf on it and I’m yours 4-ever. Fifty bucks – a real bargain, considering our friend hauled it over and helped Brian set it up.

We lived in a two-story apartment at the time and Brian asked me to call the apartment managers to make sure we were allowed to have the bed in a second story bedroom. He’s a pretty logical person and figured with a two-thousand pound hulking beast of a piece of furniture, we should play it safe. The day our friend arrived with the bed, Brian thought of it again and asked if I’d called the front office. I lied and said I had. I’m not proud, okay? I was all excited about my new bed! But either way, in it went, up it filled and we happily settled down for our first night of aquafied fun. Until I saw noticed something. That bookshelf headboard? Had a fucking MIRROR on it. Don’t ask me how I didn’t notice that before, but I’ve never claimed to be Captain Observant, okay? It certainly was easy to notice when it was reflecting white asses in the air. I made a mental note right then to fill the headboard with books first thing in the morning. There would be no more peepshows after that night, thank you.

Let’s put it this way. I am exhibitionist-opposite. I could not cut it for a career in porn. (At least not in front of the camera. I could write and direct the hell out of one of those things; it’s called a PLOT, assholes, look into it!) I do not gaze lovingly at my naked reflection, and even though Alanis says we all should, I don’t walk around naked in my living room. I don’t EVER again wish to see myself in flagrante delicto. That’s Latin for Ukingfay. And that’s Pig Latin for you-know-whattay. That night the best idea I could think of was to indicate a change of positions was necessary. Tout de suite. (What’s with all these weird words today?)

That’s not the end of the waterbed saga.

A few nights later, we had a party. Several of our friends had come from out of town and were spending the weekend with us. I drank hundreds of rum and Cokes and had a rip-roaring good time. After everyone who was leaving left and everyone who was staying passed out, we eventually wandered upstairs. We got into bed and all of a sudden it hit me: two of my very close friends were sleeping right below us on the living room futon. In my drunken state I started freaking out, convinced the bed was going to crash through the floor and squash them dead. At this point, Brian was laughing his ass off at me while also attempting to calm me down. Finally he reminded me the apartment people wouldn’t have let us put the bed upstairs if it was dangerous. And of course this is when I had to admit my ugly deceit. Lucky for me I have a really laid-back and forgiving man, but even though he forgave me for lying, he refused to join me to sleep in the walk-in closet no matter how much I pleaded and begged.

It’s getting close to wrap-up time with this story. Hang in there with me a little while longer – I promise, it gets better. Obviously.

So there we were, staying part-time at Grace’s house in a sort of suspended time-lapse. We slept together on her couch bed, but there were no relations for us during that time. The one time we tried turned out disasterously – he was still way too emotionally wrapped up with her and I still obviously had a lot of resentment toward him; it wasn’t good. That was pretty painful, let me tell you. After that episode is one of the few times I actually considered the possibility of divorce. We had an hours-long, drawn-out tearful conversation about it in her back yard and in his car driving around the neighborhood, but he still asked me not to go through with it, knowing it was totally unfair to ask me to continue to wait. Apparently I didn’t really want that either, because it didn’t happen. But it wouldn’t be the last time I came really close and it’s weird to think of how different things would’ve turned out had a couple of crazy things not happened…aaand, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Our friend Jody, who had indirectly caused this mess (I don’t blame him, but my sister refused to ever speak to him again after the shit settled, as did all of our mutual friends and now no one has been in contact with him in years), “let it slip” to Christine Brian and I were staying together during the week. I guess it was his way of getting Brian back for leaving him in Lake Shitty with no one but a housefull of women and kids for company. She, as you may imagine, was Not Pleased and handed down another ultimatim. Brian had a good job in Tampa. She was ready to leave her sister’s house and get all set up like a proper Welfare Woman deserves. She told him it was time he got a place for them.

Which is what the dumbass did. Trying to keep it from me, he put a deposit and first month’s rent down on an over-priced three bedroom apartment in Tampa. Obviously I found out about it. But things were so shaky with them still, I decided to let things play out and not fight it anymore. Of couse NOW I’m glad I didn’t push a divorce through but then I wondered what the hell I was thinking. Except that I kind of knew if they actually did move in together, it would be the final straw. Out of her element, not having her sister to party with or neighbors to flirt with, living REAL LIFE as a mother and a girlfriend? I doubted she was cut out for it.

Coincidentally another friend of mine had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend and was crushed. She came over to Grace’s one day to talk about how fucked up everything was for both of us. Out of that conversation, we decided the best thing would be for us to move in together, knowing it wouldn’t be permanent. When I told her about Brian’s new apartment in Tampa, she told me she was thinking about moving to Brandon, a town twenty minutes south of there. Her favorite cousin lived there, she didn’t want to be in Inverness anymore; our very small hometown, where she’d run into her ex constantly – she was ready to get out and start over. I’d known Jen forever and we’d lived together successfully before, during college. And she’s a lot like me in letting her fight or flight instinct take over in a crisis; she started making plans that very day for our move.

I told Brian about the plan. He was happy. Happy that I wasn’t going any further in my relationship with JR, happy because he liked Jen and most importantly because I’d be close to where he was living. He still wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be with her. Selfish? Absolutely. He admitted as much. It was at that point he told me he knew he carried things too far and he didn’t know what to do to make things right again. He didn’t trust her anymore, not that he ever did much after the first couple of weeks. The newness had mostly worn off and he was upset to find out she wasn’t a very nice person. The problem for him was the kids. They’d gotten used to him and he was even more attached to them now, especially the baby. In the time he’d been around, the baby had grown up so much, had started walking, talking. Calling him “Daddy.” He got to experience all of that. That sound you just heard was me throwing up in my mouth.

But that’s okay. No one ever spent a night in that big stupid apartment. At least no one I know. The beginning of the end had just begun.